Rafik embraced me. “You will be happy to hear that Toni will soon be again with Jason Sears. He will arrive tonight. No more jealousy for you.” He gave me a quick peck on the nose.
“That’s good,” I said. “Everyone will be happy now.”
Rafik asked, “What is wrong, Stani? You sound so empty, like you lose something.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “Rico was killed this morning.”
“Mais non!” he said. “How did it happen?”
I told him everything, except for the sex in the sandbox.
When I finished Rafik said ruefully, “So the trouble is not finished.”
“Not at all.”
“What will you do?” he said.
“You got me started. I guess I’ll just have to keep poking and prodding until the answer comes out.”
“Will you promise me one thing?”
“I’ll be careful, Rafik.”
“I already pray for that,” he said. “But when everything is solved, then you and I will find a new place together, yes?”
I hesitated, bit my lip, yielded.
“Okay,” I said. “If only for Max Harkey’s piano.”
Rafik gave me a big noisy smooch, then left by the back door. I went back out into the shop.
Nicole saw me and said, “Why so glum? You didn’t fight again?”
“One thing I haven’t told you, doll. Rico was killed this morning.”
“Rico?”
“Max Harkey’s houseboy.”
“You never told me about him.”
“I think he had a crush on me, or me on him.”
“Is that why you’re so irritable? I had no idea you’d lost a friend, or I wouldn’t have been so brusque.”
“I probably deserved it, as usual.”
“It sounds like you’ve been having a horrible day. Any other time I’d send you home, but right now you have a customer.”
I glanced to the waiting area where I saw a strange woman seated regally in one of the spacious leather chairs. She wore what appeared to be a costume, the rich theatrical attire of old European nobility. She had the aura of the Ages.
I looked at the woman more closely. “Doll, isn’t that—?”
“Yes,” replied Nicole. “But today she’s a duchessa. It was Sharleen McChannel, the same celebrity whose poster had been all over the main lobby of the Copley Palace.
I greeted her and complimented her on the rave success of her new book, but Sharleen utterly denied any claim to being the person who had written it. She insisted that she was of Italian nobility, and called herself La Duchessa, complete with broken English and a heavy accent. She told me she wanted a simple wash-and-set, and that she had been referred to Snips and specifically to me by the desk clerk at the Ritz.
During the hair work she talked about her villa on Lake Como, and about Europe-this and Europe-that, and about her ancestors who had lived in the Doge’s Palace. While I was drying her hair, La Duchessa made an odd disembodied sound.
“Is anything wrong?” I said.
“Wait,” she replied. “Wait. Quiet. Please, everyone, quiet. I am receiving the message.”
“Blowers off,” I called out to the other stylists.
The salon went quiet except for the jazz music in the background and an occasional scissor snip. La Duchessa had closed her eyes and was making troubled little moans, as though wrestling with her inner demons. Some of the stylists moved toward my station to watch the show, which went on for about three minutes.
Then she came out of the trance and said, “I have returned.”
“Resume your stations,” I called out, and the salon once again was filled with the bustling sounds of beauty.
La Duchessa, or Sharleen McChannel—I wasn’t sure which, at this point—said to me, “Very soon you will take a long trip.”
Flippantly I asked, “And will I meet a handsome stranger?”
She smiled. “I believe you have already found the dark knight of your soul.”
“How did you know?”
“They told me, of course.”
Of course. Was it a lucky guess, or did this woman really have psychic powers?
I finished her hair and she was joyous about the results. I thought her reaction a mite extreme, even for someone whose life was spent seeking exalted experiences.
When it came time to pay however, Sharleen McChannel, a k a La Duchessa, had a little problem with a more mundane side of life. Nicole called me up front to the reception desk, where I found Sharleen rummaging nervously through her purse—a tooled-leather satchel from Venice that easily cost a month’s tips. Finally exasperated and suddenly devoid of any Italian accent, Sharleen announced to me, “I don’t seem to have any money with me, I don’t know where my mind is today.”
I was about to tell her where, but I felt the sharp heel of Nicole’s calfskin pump pressing into my instep. What could I do? I couldn’t very well create a scene with a superstar. To her credit, Sharleen La Duchessa did offer me her antique gold earrings, which she claimed were authentic heirlooms from her ancestors, the Medicis. Sure, doll. And I am Marie of Romania. Though at this rate she’d probably have claimed that she and Marie were best friends, exchanging quips about their respective courtiers. Still, I refused the offer of La Duchessa’s costume jewelry, and contented myself with having another great story to tell my friends.
After the shop was closed and locked, Nicole and I sat in my office for a cocktail and her cigarette.
“Darling,” she said once we had settled down, “You look so sad. Did Rico mean so much to you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe all the events of the past few days are finally affecting me. Or maybe it’s because Rafik wants to get a place together again.”
“Then perhaps it’s time to do it. You must be tired of finding reasons why you can’t be satisfied with him. It might even help you get over Rico.”
“You sound like those people who replace a dead pet immediately, before any real grief can settle in.”
“Is that what he was to you? A pet?”
“I’m not sure. He was certainly playful. And after Rafik’s seriousness, that was appealing. But now I seem to have found a new appreciation of Rafik.”
“Perhaps because he’s alive, darling.”
“Still, Nikki. Living with someone—think of how it changes things. Would you move in with Branco?
She laughed. “Why ever would I do that?”
“Because you’re dating him. It’s the same reasoning you use for Rafik and me.”
“Silly boy, it’s not like that at all. Besides, you and Rafik have been together so long.”
“What’s the difference, Nikki? What’s the real purpose of living together, anyway—to collect china and shop for furniture?”
“You already have all that, dear.”
“I rest my case.”
“So why don’t you just enjoy it together?”
“I want something more, Nikki. I want an immutable connection of the soul.”
“Oh, Stanley. You already have that too.”
“I suppose I do,” I said vaguely.
As if to mark the end of our futile debate, Nicole extinguished her cigarette barely half smoked.
“Cutting down?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “along with the coffee cream.”
“I sense a new you emerging.”
“I’m not afraid of change,” she said, getting up and putting on her light spring coat. She kissed me and left. Somehow, just the tiniest bit, Nicole seemed to be floating on air.
I was alone in the shop. It was blessedly quiet. My mind was blank. I was so tired I couldn’t think, or even think about thinking. So I flipped mindlessly through a travel magazine that had arrived at the salon that day. At one point I found myself facing a full-page photo of Big Ben in London, and that photo activated a few dormant neurons. There was yet another character related to Max Harkey whom I had not met yet. Perhaps she held a key to the unansw
ered questions. It would be so simple. I would fly to London to find and question the ballerina Mireille Rubinskaya, grand-niece of Madame Rubinskaya.
I called my travel agent, Hanni, the only German expatriate who never flies her clients on the major German carrier. Fortunately she works late to be available for her West Coast clients. After a long wait with an electronic operator, I finally heard Hanni’s real voice on the line. She always sounded as though she should have been singing Carmen.
“You’re next on my list,” she said.
I replied, “That sounds like a good title for a murder mystery.”
Hanni laughed and said, “Where have you been, you bitch?”
“Hanni, I’ve got to get to London.”
“I don’t hear from you for two months and now you’re going on vacation?”
“It’s not a vacation,” I said. “It’s urgent.”
I quickly explained the situation to her, and she, as usual, attacked the problem like a four-star general on the field.
“First question, Do you have a passport?”
“It’s the one thing I always renew but never use.”
“You never know when you’ll have to leave the country, she said, and then jammed the local telephone lines with her vibrant laugh. Click-click-click went her keyboard. “I can book you on British Airways departing Logan in about two and a half hours. Can you make that?”
“I’ll have to, Hanni.”
“So it’s a go?”
“Yes.”
“Is this going on the plastic?”
“You mean it’s going to cost me?”
“Stanislav, this is a full-fare round-trip ticket to London. I can give you a good deal, really good, but not a freebie. You know my expenses. The lease just went up, I have the alimony to my ex, the kids’ school bills are due, both dogs were at the vet today, one of my nannies wants a raise, I have a new boyfriend, and—”
“Okay, okay, Hanni. How much?”
She quoted me a price so ghastly that I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What is that, first class?”
She laughed out loud. “That’s the back of the bus!”
“What about my discount?”
“That is discounted. Look, Stanislav, your timing is awful. You’re flying midweek, last-minute, open return. At least you’ll get double miles.”
“What I need is a double income.”
“So you want me to book it?”
“Jeez, Hanni. Yeah. But my plastic won’t handle that much. I’ll have to call you from home with the financial arrangements.”
“I won’t cut the ticket until I hear from you.”
I sprinted home on my strong Slavic legs. Once inside I called Nicole, but got her answering service.
“Ms. Albright is unavailable,” they said.
I guessed where she was, and I had Branco’s private number. Hell, this seemed enough of an emergency to use it. But his private phone had been routed back to the police station. I couldn’t bring myself to leave a personal message for him there.
Rafik wasn’t home either, but he had no ready cash or credit anyway.
Where were my friends when I needed them? Who was going to pay my way to London? I needed a goddam benefactor.
Then the answer came with startling directness.
Marshall Zander had offered his help to me. Would I be able to ask him? How would I bargain for the money? There was no time for moral debate. I called him and explained the situation, that I wanted to see Mireille Rubinskaya. He agreed easily, even after I told him how much the ticket was. Though he did say, “I’d rather be buying you a nice vacation instead of this kind of trip.”
“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” I said.
“Don’t worry about that. Your friendship is more important. Tell me whom to call.”
I gave him Hanni’s number.
Marshall said, “I’d come with you if I thought I could help.”
“Paying for the ticket is help enough.”
“Do you need a ride to the airport?”
“Thanks, no.”
“Please let me take you. I like to drive people to the airport.”
“You do?”
“I’m a person, too, beyond my money. Helping others makes me feel useful.”
I almost said, “Then order me a limo.” But instead I said, “It’s really no trouble to get a cab.”
“I insist. I am paying your way, after all. Tell me where you live.” I made more excuses, but finally yielded to his insistence and gave him the address. I did manage to keep my apartment number secret, explaining that the doorbell didn’t work.
“Then I’ll call you from my car phone when I get there.”
We hung up and I set to packing madly.
What was I doing and at what cost? Every time my path crossed Marshall Zander’s, there was the feeling of a deal, of a transaction, of trading something. Was this the same desperate innocence that drove the courtesans to live their way?
Sugar Baby watched my frenzied packing in wide-eyed bemusement. The phone rang. Was it Nicole or Rafik? I waited for the machine to pick up while I screened the call. I heard Hanni’s voice and grabbed the receiver.
“Where did you find him? she asked.
“His money is good. He owns the Copley Palace, among other things.”
“I know that, but he’s not your type. I could hear him drooling on the phone. You don’t like him, do you?”
“Hanni, I was desperate and he was home.”
“Just don’t put out for him, not for a lousy plane ticket. You get some gold or some property first.”
“I’ll remember that when the courtship begins.”
“Your ticket will be at the British Airways counter. And you’ll be going first-class.”
“Huh?”
“I convinced him you were worth it. I must be losing my mind. Hah! Anyway, you’ll be more comfortable. First-class is wide open.”
“So I’ve heard. I owe you, Hanni.”
“No way,” she said with her big laugh. “Do you know what my commission is on that kind of ticket? I owe you, Stanislav, so I booked you two nights at La Folie, prepaid at my rate. You’re a travel agent now.”
I felt more like a secret agent.
“Thanks, Hanni.”
I finished packing, and just as I snapped the clasps on my luggage closed, I had a disquieting revelation: The cosmic predictions of Sharleen McChannel had begun to occur in real life. I was taking a long trip.
Quickly I changed Sugar Baby’s water and doled out a whole can of food. The cat box would have to wait.
Marshall Zander arrived in his low-slung German coupé. I pushed my bag into the narrow compartment behind the two front seats and got in. He pressed his hand onto mine.
“Hi, there,” he said.
His hand felt dry and rough and cool, much like a reptile’s.
“Hi,” I replied, pulling my hand away. And we were off.
On Storrow Drive I asked him why he had fired Rico.
“When did you hear that?” he said.
“I dropped by the hotel to see him today. The concierge told me Rico had been discharged.”
“Well, that’s not exactly true. I didn’t fire him. He quit on me. I think Rico was hoping I would replace Max as his surrogate father, and it obviously didn’t work out. So he vanished. He said he was going to Haymarket for fresh produce, but he never came back from the errand.”
“But that’s not what really happened,” I said.
Marshall Zander squirmed in the plump leather seat.
I went on, “I talked to the police. Rico was killed in a traffic accident.”
He applied the brakes suddenly, a stupid if typical driver’s response on Storrow Drive.
“I know that!” he said with a loud sob. “But did you expect me to tell my staff that an employee was killed?”
“It was the truth.”
“You don’t understand,” he said. “Hotel service is like theater. It
must be a dream world where everything happens for the comfort of the guests.”
That sounded like theater of the wimps to me. I asked him, “Why should a traffic accident in Boston upset your guests?”
“You never know how people will react. But I believed it was judicious to tell the staff that I had released Rico from service. That was to be the hotel’s official stand. The staff always knows what’s really going on, but they also know enough to accept what I tell them.”
Except perhaps Rico.
Marshall Zander placed his hand on my thigh and felt around my leg muscles. His touch was revolting. But I repeated to myself those famous words: Close your eyes and think of England.
By the time we approached the airport he’d removed his hand from my leg.
“Does flying bother you?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m a Gemini. Air sign, you know.”
“I’m petrified of heights myself.”
“Is that why you live in a penthouse?”
“I never go out on the deck. Maybe you can help me overcome my fear.” Once more he put his hand over mine. This time I couldn’t control the reflex, and I pulled away in revulsion. I’m sure he noticed.
We arrived at the terminal and he pulled over to the curb.
He handed me his personal card. “Call me collect from London,” he said. “Tell me when you’re returning and I’ll pick you up.”
“Thanks, but—”
“I insist,” he said with that boggy-eyed look of his.
“Sure,” I said, eager to placate him but with no intention of calling. I got out of his car, grabbed my bag from the back compartment, and slammed the door closed. The loud bang marked my freedom. The cockpit of his car, however luxurious, had been too close for me. He waved once more, altogether too friendly, and pulled away from the curb. I was relieved to be on my own, with only the slightest twinge of guilt that Marshall Zander’s money was making it all possible.
Inside the terminal, after I’d checked in, I called Nicole one more time. The answering service was still taking her calls, so I left a message that I was en route to London and would see her in a couple of days. Then I called Rafik again and left a message on his answering machine.
“I’m having tea in London. Please feed the cat.”
Twenty-four hours earlier we’d been exploring bondage and discipline, and now it was tea and cats.
Dead on Your Feet Page 21